Out with you to the top of Tullahogue, Shane the Proud! The royal flagstone is there, waiting for you to plant your right foot upon it, as your ancestors the Kings did before you! And Shane O’Neill stood on Tullahogue, and a straight, white wand was handed to him as a symbol of his true balance of justice to his clan; an embroidered cloak was put over his powerful shoulders, and a helmet on his head. His shoe was thrown behind him over his shoulder. A thousand swords were waved overhead, and the echoes of the whole district were awakened with the sound of voices from a thousand throats — “O’Neill for ever! May our Prince live to enjoy his election!” The sun shone on the handsome, bright features of O’Neill, and the great hounds in their leashes bayed as if they heard the howl of the wolf in the forest and the cry of the fawn on the hill.

“I would think it a greater honour to be ‘O’Neill of Ulster’ than to be King of Spain,” said Hugh of Tir-Eoghain a good while after.

“The name ‘O’Neill’ is greater in the eyes of Ulstermen than ‘Caesar’ was to the Romans,” said the exterminator Mountjoy.